In All Things Light and Dark
by darkhelmetj
Summary: Malthael had supposed there would be silence in death. Instead, he found wisdom and the chance for redemption. Post-RoS. Act I in a series. Complete!
1. Prologue: Wisdom Lost

**_DIABLO: AMOR AETERNUS_**

 ** _ACT I_**

* * *

 ** _In All Things Light and Dark_**

* * *

"In all things there are two sides: motion and stillness,  
emptiness and fullness, light and dark.

Alone, each side is incomplete, but together, they form the  
totality of existence. Only through embracing the  
oneness of all things can true wisdom be obtained."

– The Book of Cain (pg. 51)

* * *

 _Prologue: Wisdom Lost_

Malthael had supposed there would be silence in death. A cessation of the drone that had followed him since the Worldstone's destruction. Relief from the endless cacophony of human emotions.

As the souls exploded from his body and picked apart his being, the world lightened. His rage faded, replaced by a pervasive numbness. Pandemonium Fortress washed away; in its place was an ivory hall, infinite in dimensions. The voices grew into a throbbing chorus that pierced his mind. He screamed; the din absorbed it, and he realized he was one of many doing the same.

Lost, amongst the essences he had reaped and then failed to contain.

"Leave me," he howled. "Hell-driven voices. There was to be peace."

 _Chalad'ar. Wisdom. Where has it gone? Light, unending light. I never asked for this. Too many, too much. The eternal balance, occluded._

He tried to walk, but his corporal form had dissolved. With it slid away the linearity of time. He saw the Nephalem driving their blades into his chest. Swirling souls in the Black Soulstone. Tyrael, his brother, fear evident in his eyes as he hung from the tip of Malthael's shotel.

 _Tyrael. My brothers and sisters. Could you not hear the sound, too, even those who followed me? Did I ever ask? Did you ever notice?_

Flashing memories. The transforming caverns of Pandemonium. Overwhelming feelings, from an exponentially increasing number of humans. The Worldstone, shattering. Whispering. Nephalem voices, breaking the glass surface of Chalad'ar.

Lighter times. Chalad'ar, when it still spoke to him. The endless stream of wisdom as he bathed in the Pools.

Simpler times. Angels. Demons. Heaven. Hell.

Solitude.

Silence.

* * *

A glimmering beacon drew him in. He felt the light inside him. Warm, pleasant, a glorious song that resonated his soul. An archway, forged from crystal, towering. The closer it came, the more threads of his being drifted away. Memories. Feelings.

One drive, remaining.

 _I am, I_ _ **was**_ _, Wisdom. Do you bring that knowledge here, to me?_

The archway did not answer.

 _Where would I find it?_

Elsewhere, a lingering hum. Promises. Tangibility. Life.

The archway promised Nothingness. A new beginning from an end. He was not ready, though the nature of his incomplete work was a distant blur, remnants of a life he had lived for millennia.

He knew, simply, that he had failed. And he must try again.

His soul turned, forgetting where it had walked before, and took a step towards the voices. The light faded, sensation returned. As he ran, boots echoed on cold marble, and the infinite chamber fell into darkness.

Show me, he thought. _Whatever you are. Show me wisdom._


	2. Chapter One: Motion and Stillness

_Chapter One: Motion and Stillness_

"Pa, there's a man in the lake!"

Jerem sighed, leaned on his pitchfork and gazed out across the cattle field towards where his son, Talm, was shouting. Bodies were nothing new. Wayward demon-spawn floated their direction occasionally. With luck, they were usually deceased. Which meant he didn't have to call the local demon hunters to come clean them up.

"Bloated corpses don't milk cows," he called. "Leave it for the vultures and carrion. Your mother'll tan us both if we don't get this finished."

"But, pa, he's still breathing!"

Tarnation.

Jerem sighed again. "All right, I'll bring a cart. But best we hurry. Don't need to be that far afield after sunset."

* * *

The man was indeed alive, if barely. His body had come to rest on the lakeshore, naked and without possessions. Jerem frowned, wondering if it were the work of men instead of demons. In his experience, demons were more inclined to eat flesh than clothing. A question to be answered, later, if the man awoke.

Together, Jerem and Talm lifted him onto the cart, covered him in a thick woolen quilt, and returned to the farm. The remaining twilight spilled over the horizon, eventually fading until the land was dark and permeated with the calls of night creatures. A wolf pack howled, distantly. Closer, the thick buzz of carrion flies.

"Where have you been?" Lirian called from the door. She stood sternly, hands on her wide hips, and cocked her head at them. "Hardly a night passes that someone isn't murdered while out on a stroll. We're a long way from Salvos."

"So is he," Jerem said, pointing to the cart. "Or wherever he floated in from."

Talm pulled back the quilt to reveal the man. He had dried on the return trip, but his skin was still deathly pale; long, swaths of dark hair were plastered to his gaunt face and chest, partially obscuring his eyes. He breathed shallowly.

Lirian palmed her face. "Heaven help you if you brought a necromancer into our house. Well, best get him in, before that stench draws unwanted attention."

* * *

Talm added a log to the fire; the house was drafty and the evening was brisk for mid-summer. The laid the man on a spare cot, draped a sheet across him, and waited. Aside from casual chat, they did not mention him. It was best not to, until he either awoke or succumbed to whatever had inconvenienced him. When it was clear neither would happen that night, they withdrew to their rooms and slept.

The fireplace glow dwindled. The home grew quiet.

And finally, as the first beams of morning light pierced the windows, the man opened his eyes.

* * *

Cold. It was his first thought as he awoke and realized he was in an unknown home, unclothed save a sheet someone had clearly left on him. Then, a strange rumbling sensation in his gut. Hunger? He frowned, wondering why the concept seemed new.

He sat, looked about. The home was small and filled with kitchen trappings, herb jars, and farming accessories. No books. Uneducated farm folk. Three doors, one the entryway. At least two inhabitants, then. Parents and a child?

"You're awake. Good. I thought we would have to bring the grave keeper."

He started, then realized it was just a woman, older, wearing a nightgown; she stood at the threshold of one of the doors and considered him.

"Not much of a talker, are you?" She laughed. "You can stop staring. Or haven't you ever seen a lady before? No, don't answer that. If you haven't I don't want to know why. Heaven knows we have enough strange folks wandering these lands."

Heaven.

His head throbbed as the word echoed, though she only spoke it once.

The High Heavens. Where angels walked.

"No, truly," she said, expression softening. "You can call me Lirian. Since you haven't slit our throats in our sleep, I'm hoping you're harmless. Head hurt? You didn't have the softest of beds before my husband found you. Can't imagine the dampness helped."

"What do you mean?" His speech felt forced, as if his voice was diminished somehow.

"You don't remember? Jerem and Talm pulled you from the lakeshore a few miles from here. Didn't even have the clothing on your back. Thought you might die in the night. You're still pale."

He didn't remember the lake, but instead, a white light, and floating. The sun? No, something more. And the rest, behind a wall in his mind. He had no idea how much was there; only, that he remembered none of it. The longer he considered it, the colder he felt. As if something was shouting for him to stay away. He shuddered.

"I don't remember anything," he finally said. "Except that I've…forgotten."

Something heinous, he thought, but didn't say aloud.

"I'll make you an offer," she said. "Since you seem out of sorts. I can't afford to clothe myself, let alone you. But if you see my husband and put in some honest work out in the fields for a day or two, I can provide you a warm meal and some cast offs. Enough, at least, to get you to the nearest town without dying from the elements."

"That seems…fair."

"Then consider it done." Lirian paused. "What should we call you, stranger?"

His name? His head pained again, and he ran his fingers across his temples to staunch the ache. Hair. He didn't remember having it. It was strange, like so many other things he was coming to notice. New things, overlaid with the old.

Memories then, unbidden. Melodic voices, a distant feeling of belonging. One clear word, spoken over and over by a multitude. He had his answer.

"Malthael," he said, and it felt _right_. "My name is Malthael."

* * *

Jerem was kind enough when Malthael admitted he had never milked a cow, and instead offered him the chance to work the fields.

"We're beginning to harvest the wheat," the farmer said, digging through a small shack and pulling out a sickle. "Load a basket, bring it back and dump it here. Talm can take care of the rest. Truth told, I appreciate the extra labour. The days are colder than we expected." He held out the tool.

Malthael took it and ran his thumb over the rough wood handle, then gave it a gentle swing. Amongst a morning of strange experiences, it felt familiar. If Jerem noticed his pause, he didn't indicate.

The work was grueling, but the day passed quickly. Talm was talkative, and Malthael was content to work while the younger man chatted. He spoke of his parents and his love for them; of the sunsets over the lake, which were no longer safe to watch due to the growing presence of strange creatures; of a woman from the farm over with raven hair, who he fancied and hoped would one day come watch the sunsets with him.

These were things Malthael quickly realized he should have also experienced, or at least variations thereof. But aside from the lingering memories he had of a family somewhere, nothing was familiar.

It was easy to brush aside Talm and Jerem's chiding over his reaction to food; the biscuits seemed luxurious in a way he couldn't describe, which was sensical enough for a thin man who had been abandoned unconscious. Even the driest loaves were feasts for the hungry.

But what man had never watched the sun rise? Or spoken dearly of a lover?

These were mere concepts for him. Ideas embedded in his flesh that he understood at a fundamental level, but drew no recognition.

As Malthael again traced the sickle handle with his fingers, Talm's voice grew distant. He ran his index finger up the blade, and tried, desperately, to will something out of it.

 _Not quite_ , something whispered. _Keep looking_.

"Mal, you'll grow into the field if you stand that still."

He turned to Talm and tipped his head sideways. Ambient sound returned, although it was soft; rustling crops, a crow in the distance.

"Did you own one?" Talm gestured at the sickle. "Pa noticed too. Maybe you're a farmer, like us."

No, that wasn't right. Malthael frowned. He thought again of the farmhouse and the lack of books. Those, he remembered. Millions of pages of glowing text. No pain in his head, this time, but a lingering contentedness as he briefly imagined a long hallway with ceramic shelves, overlooking a glittering waterfall that cascaded from the sky into pools cut from rock.

 _Home._

"No," he said. "I was something else."

"A merchant? That would explain why you were robbed."

Malthael resumed harvesting, his mind still attuned to the comforting thought of the library. "Is that what you think occurred?"

"What else? If it had been demon spawn, we'd have found your corpse. Or worse, you would have become the living dead." Talm chuckled. "Ma thought you were a necromancer because you were so pale. But they haven't been around here for a long time. Not since the spirit uprising in Westmarch, and that was almost twenty years ago."

The sickle slipped from Malthael's hand. His fingers shook, unbidden. The sun momentarily went dark, and he heard echoing screams, as if from a cavern. The ground smelled of carrion; he looked down, saw bones beneath his boots. He looked to the horizon, saw a city, burning with silver fire.

The screams grew louder. He grabbed his head, told himself it was not real. There were no boots. There were no bones. There was no city.

He came to on the ground. Talm shook his shoulders, panic on his face. "Are you all right? I didn't think when I said that. Pa says I don't think. But I guess you're old enough. You could have been there. Guess you would have been my age. Heavens. You could have had children. I'm sorry. Did you lose them?"

He couldn't remove the images from his mind. They were burned there, permanent. And that smell; the rotting flesh, mixed with sewage. It had never been that strong before.

 _Before_. There was a before, when the sensations were muted. He had been there, in Westmarch; in the library, too. Two vastly conflicting locations, one of light, and one of soul-consuming darkness.

"We can stop for the day," Talm said, helping him up. He brushed off Malthael's tunic, which was far too wide for his frame. "Ma will have dinner ready soon. Maybe she'll have more biscuits for you."

"I…"

 _What monstrous horror did I witness there?_

"I will stay the night," he managed. "And then I should leave."

Talm's expression grew sad, though he did not argue. They left the field, the younger man carrying the bundle and sickle on his back. Malthael felt dizzy, as though the wall in his mind was crumbling and threatening to fall on his consciousness. He stumbled to the farm house and leaned heavily against the door frame.

He no longer wanted to see what was behind the mental veil. His very first thought, that it was something awful, had been more than correct. Yet, if he was to learn who he was, he would have to pursue the memory until he uncovered it fully.

"Pa and I do appreciate the help," Talm said, returning from the barn, having dropped off the wheat and tools. "We'll bring the crop to town in a week or so, once it's ready. Hopefully we'll fetch good coin for it."

Malthael forced himself to nod. He stretched his fingers until they strained and stopped shaking. Pushed away the noise in his head, until all that was left was the wind.

He wanted the silence. Needed it. It was the only thing holding his mind together. Calm conversation, a gentle word. Warm food, perhaps a bed. Basic comforts, simple things he could focus on.

"Come," Talm said, squeezing his shoulder.

Malthael nodded again, and let the younger, naïve man direct him in.

* * *

Both Jerem and Lirian tried to convince him to stay a few days. His head had pained too many times, obviously, for him to be discreet. They had noticed, and Talm had later told them how he had collapsed in the field. They assumed he had suffered trauma in the robbery attempt; Talm had tactfully neglected to mention Westmarch.

He told himself it was robbery. That he had been travelling the roads, had been ambushed, and had his supplies and clothing stolen. That he had been left for dead. He didn't believe it, no matter how many times he mouthed it silently.

You were robbed.

 _They were murdered._

You were assaulted.

 _They won't stop screaming._

They left you for dead.

 _You_ _ **wanted**_ _to die._

The last realization was painful; amongst the carrion and bones, he had wanted to give up. Nothing linked it to where he had been found at the lake. But a part of him instinctively knew the events in Westmarch held the answers. He needed to learn what drove him to such desperate action.

"Are you sure?" Lirian asked softly, when he declined to remain beyond the night. "You are hardly an inconvenience." Jerem nodded in agreement.

"I cannot stay," Malthael told them. "I…remember, and I must learn more before I forget."

"Then we will send you with what we can give."

He dined with them on broth, boiled chicken, and garden greens. Then, they bid him goodnight, and Malthael lay on the cot and stared into the darkness. He begged it to take him, until sleep, another strange companion he did not understand, finally did.

* * *

He dreamed of an unending sky, bisected by a glowing waterfall that flowed as far as he could see. The water was cold, and when he ran his fingers through it, he saw the reflections of countless faces. Men, women, children. Dancing, laughing. Screaming, dying. The entirety of humanity, and their emotions, written on their faces, carving themselves into his mind.

Deafening noise. He pushed it away, but it returned, flowing faster.

The waterfall grew and enveloped him. He cried out as the water ran into his mouth and filled his lungs. He struggled to escape, but he was sinking. Drowning. His eyes dimmed, and he looked helplessly towards the surface.

A hooded figure stared down at him. A long, bisected cowl flowed as if in the wind. Its face was obscured, or perhaps nothing more than shadow itself. Two gleaming, silver blades wavered as the water swirled and pulled him into nothingness.

Then, a voice, so deep it shook the earth.

" _You cannot stop death."_

* * *

Malthael awoke as the sun began to filter into the farmhouse. He briefly considered the dust motes as they drifted in the light beams. Small, inconsequential. Beautiful. He wondered if the farmers, who had been inexplicably compassionate to him, a stranger, paused for such moments.

They were all like the dust; limited, mortal, but capable of focused kindness. A small drop in a mighty lake, whose efforts were not lost upon him.

The night's dream returned, and he shuddered at the sensation of drowning and the looming figure that had preceded over his death. Any thought of purpose left him as he remembered its words.

" _You cannot stop death_."

This was true, he decided, as he gathered the clothing Lirian and Jerem had set out for him. Dust lingered, but humans eventually perished. In Westmarch. Elsewhere. Wherever they existed. Perhaps that was why he had given up; the same realization, gained in the darkest of moments. Wanting, desperately, relief.

And still he packed.

 _Death brought me to the lakeshore. Discarded, broken. No matter its inevitability, death is not the answer I seek. It cannot be. I had purpose, once. Books, scrolls, their meaning forgotten, but not their effect. I will find that again._

* * *

They met him in the field as he was about to depart. He had hoped to slip away and avoid farewells. He was not sure how to thank them, as words seemed hollow compared to their mercy.

"Be safe," Lirian said. She handed him a rough-hewn bag, which he tucked in his pack. "A small meal for you."

"The road is not long, but dark creatures have been out as of late," Jerem said, handing him a piece of leather with a wordless map sketched upon it. "Take care at night. Perhaps we will see you again, when we venture to Salvos."

Finally, Talm stepped forward and held out a curved bundle wrapped in scrap cloth and fastened with leather straps. Malthael took it, considered its weight. It was warm, as if radiating an internal heat, yet also cold, like fire and ice mixed. His fingers tightened, and between them he felt handles and flat metal.

The blades from his dream. Terrified and unsure of how he knew, he pushed the bundle back to Talm. He wanted answers, not nightmares.

Talm held firm, and briefly clasped Malthael's hands, supportive.

"I found them at the lake last night," he said. "Near to where we found you. They are well cared for. I know little about the magic arts, but I felt their power. No cutthroat would have left them behind. I am sure they are yours."

Words died in his throat; Malthael shook his head.

"I do not know what horrors your past contains, or how you came to possess these. But you were truthful. I do not believe you were a farmer or a merchant." Talm stepped back, left Malthael to heft the bundle alone. "I believe you were a warrior. A good man. And that perhaps, someday, you will remember that."

 _A good man. Is that what I was?_

"Thank you," Malthael managed, his voice reduced to a broken whisper. He secured the bundle to his pack, momentarily cringing at the added weight to his load. It seemed fitting, however, that he carry them and the unknown burden they represented.

"May the Light guide you," Talm said. "And protect you." The three held his gaze, then turned and returned to the farmhouse.

And Malthael was left alone, a path set before him with an unknown destination.

He took a step, then another, and began his journey.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you to anyone joining me on this new adventure! This story is the first in a set of four. They are all completed, save some minor editing, and constitute Acts I to IV of a series (approximately 90,000 words in total for the series). I love the lore hidden in _Diablo III_ , particularly in _Reaper of Souls_ , and I wanted to be able to continue that onward. The series will touch on elements that I hope a future game will tackle, as well as some fairly extensive moral and philosophical quandaries. I hope you all enjoy. Best buckle up for the ride.


	3. Chapter Two: Emptiness and Fullness

_Chapter Two: Emptiness and Fullness_

The trail to town was well worn; Malthael imagined generations of farmers and merchants, by foot or horse and cart, traversing the fields to peddle their wares. The land contained many such hidden histories, only accessible to those who considered their creation. There, the remnants of a fire, revealed only through disintegrating tree trunks and charred earth. And there, a struggle from long ago, where the ground was left with long, deep scars.

Demons, perhaps, as Jerem had warned. Though the land gouges had been crafted many years prior.

His boots were ill fitted, and after several miles his feet pained. The pack weighed on his back, and he scoffed silently at Talm's suggestion that he had been a warrior. He did not feel much like one. He thought of the marble library, again, and its comforting familiarity. A scholar, perhaps? That seemed appropriate, both to his inclinations and his physical form.

For that reason, and although he appreciated the aid he had left behind, Malthael quickly grew fond of the road's solitude. His thoughts were left to wander, uninterrupted; he walked absently, glancing every so often at the map, but generally retreating into his mind. There, he felt safe from the shadows that lurked in his subconscious. As if internal awareness cast a light that drove away the dark, or reduced it, at least, to a buried corner.

Silence followed him, mercifully. Another sensation, another lost memory. Not the screams of Westmarch, but an incessant din he could not avoid. Here, it was gone. He heard the breeze, the distant chirps of birds, and further, a rumbling river. As if he was reduced, yet somehow more whole.

He came to a crossroads as the sun dipped. There was a risk of bandits if he camped there, but he hesitated to venture further; the road was dotted with trees in the distance, and he preferred his chances with country folk over demons or the walking dead.

The pack offered little in the way of bedding. Still, he knew it was more comfortable than the lakeshore. He found a dip in the land near the road, settled in, and listened as the world changed around him. Night truly was different from day. The natural calls changed, grew menacing. Yet, the dark was also peaceful, a strange balance between life and nothingness.

Malthael realized he had reached for the wrapped bundle, and he frowned, withdrawing his hand. He needed no comfort, and surely, he needn't confront that element of his past so soon. He chose instead to tug the bundle closer, enough for the radiating warmth to reach him, yet far enough it could not intrude on his thoughts.

As he grew drowsy, the silhouettes of creatures approached. They held fast at the edge of the grainy darkness, as if considering him. After a time, they disappeared, and Malthael assigned them to his imagination, until he saw the bundle was glowing with a pervasive, amethyst light.

Light that had frightened away whatever lurked.

Troubled, he pushed the thoughts away, and let sleep take him.

* * *

He dreamed of an unending cavern; rocks hewn from the sky and strewn across the horizon. Roiling lava, blistering light. In the centre, a battered fortress, its walls neglected, its halls occupied by the lost and discarded.

It whispered to him. A congregation of voices, mortal and other. He thought, perhaps, if he drew closer, he could hear what they said, and the incessant hum would resolve into something meaningful.

The fortress was the source of the din. In its innermost sanctum, he found a swirling mass of lost souls. They screamed and writhed in a gale, whipping his cloak and scathing his mind.

 _Tell me what you need_ , he thought, desperately. _I am here. I have finally found you, though I could not see the way. Tell me how to bring you peace. Help me find silence._

The mass spoke as one, a rasping gestalt that shook the fortress and brought a cascade of dust down from the ceiling:

" _Bring us death."_

* * *

By the time he reached the town several days later, Malthael's body ached. He had run out of food a day earlier, and unending hunger pains struck his gut. His sleep had also been disturbed with endless dreams that he could barely remember, but which often awoke him with gasps and sweat. Only brief flashes of fantastical landscapes stayed with him into the waking hours. That, and a lingering sensation of dread.

He sighed, relieved, when the first tips of the buildings appeared from behind the trees. The map Jerem had given him was unlabelled – unsurprisingly, as he doubted the man could read or write. He only knew the town's name because they had told him – Salvos.

He arrived in the streets proper as the sun peaked in the sky. The laneways were congested with residents bustling about, some riding horses, others pushing hand carts. Merchants hawked their wares, calling about foodstuffs and linens. Mixed amongst newer structures were old stone buildings, some still with standing walls, others having fallen into such disrepair that only the foundations remained. Malthael stopped at one and ran his hand across the weathered stone. Age, but also violence; he smelled gunpowder from demon hunter grenades on his fingers and noted several sharp edges on the wall where a blade had struck.

A lively and vibrant settlement that had seen death. A pristine example of survival, and the desire to grow and thrive. It was very human. The thought confused Malthael. Why feel that differentiation, when he was one of them? Then again, from what he had been told, Westmarch, which he had come to think of as his-city, had not faired so well. He had reason enough to be jaded.

Which meant he had to learn more. Unbidden, the true destination of his search rose to conscious thought. He would go where he always went when he had questions.

To the place where knowledge and wisdom dwelled.

* * *

The monastery did not have the marble halls Malthael remembered from his past. But it was tidy enough, with a clean stone floor and several shelves of texts. Near the altar, a bearded man in white robes swept lingering dirt into a loose pile. He looked up as Malthael approached, face expressionless save for a slight crinkle of his eyes.

"Stranger," he said, studying Malthael head to toe. "You look weathered. Can I help you?"

"I…hope so." He dropped his pack to the floor; the wrapped bundle gave a muffled, metallic pang. "I seek answers."

The priest cracked a faint smile and gestured about the sanctuary. "Those we have, in abundance. Though you may have to be more specific."

Where to begin? His story seemed implausible even to himself. His appearance at the lake. The blades from his dream brought to life, clearly infused with magic, yet with no indication as to why they were his. He decided to start with the easiest question.

"May I use your library?"

* * *

"I rarely meet someone learned in the old languages," the priest said, as Malthael set a third stack of books down and began to flip through them. He had dusted a table in a side room off the sanctuary and invited Malthael to stay as long as necessary. He had also brought him a small meal and a set of worn, yet better fitting, robes, which Malthael had changed into immediately.

"Where did you study?" asked the priest. "Your teacher was thorough."

"Somewhere," he said absently. It was as much truth as he could tell. He hadn't realized the extent of his knowledge until he had opened one of the older scriptures and read it without difficulty. "It is…complicated."

The priest laughed. "As is life. I will not pry. Although I will apologize for our dismal collection. Our population has outpaced my ability to grow the library. There is certainly enough interest in preserving the Light if the message is passed along orally. Few have interest or ability enough to read the original texts."

A shame, Malthael thought. There was a certain holiness in seeking knowledge. One could hardly make decisions on weighty matters without comprehensively understanding the issue from all directions.

He stopped and considered where such a compulsive feeling had come from. Outside of the lingering horror that hulked in his mind, no other idea had garnered such an impassioned reaction from him. This one seemed like an absolute truth, or even more profoundly, the fundamental fabric of his soul.

"I see you have found some answers," the priest said, as if there were words in Malthael's silence. "You are familiar with the basic tenants of the church?"

"Of the Light? Yes." Words tumbled from his lips. "From Anu's body itself, which was forged from the eternal battle against the Prime Evil, Tathamet. Most radiant in the High Heavens, where dwell the Seraphim-"

He blinked and he was elsewhere. The monastery vanished, replaced by glittering marble halls. Brilliant shapes drifted by. He squinted against the glare and tried to see their true forms, but they were obscured, as if he viewed them through a veil.

Through a window, in the distance, was a towering crystal archway, from which the Light itself emanated. He felt an unquenchable longing, a stabbing pain and resilient hope that intensified the more he stared.

Feeling his consciousness slide, he forced himself to look elsewhere. There, on a worn stone dais, was a chalice. It was filled to the brim with glowing water. Light. He leaned over it, drawn as strongly as he had been to the arch.

Whispers. A hundred, a thousand voices calling his name. He tried to hear them all, to hold each of them in his mind, to know their pain, their desires. But there were too many, their thoughts rich and profound.

The surface rippled, and he was back in the monastery, crumpled over the table, his forehead pounding from where it had hit the polished wood.

"That must stop," he said, realizing the priest had come to his side and was helping him sit.

They considered each other for a long moment, before the other man finally spoke. "You do not know what you are looking for," he said. "You do not even remember what it is."

Malthael leaned back and buried his face in his hands; he was faintly dizzy, and unsure if it was from his collapse or something less tangible.

"I would assume, then, that you have lost something very important." When Malthael tried to speak, the priest held up a hand. "I have seen this before, when those unlearned in the arcane arts have attempted strong magics. Souls may be weak. Or sometimes, the spell is too great for even the most practised wizards. Rarely does the individual remember what they have done." He paused. "There is power in this world, stranger. It flows through the realm like a river, uncontrolled. We may, if we dare, wade into it. Some step too far and drown."

His mouth was dry. "They found me by a lake."

"Then you knew, at least, how to swim." The priest stood and gestured at the books. "You could spend a lifetime searching every library for your truth. I see in your eyes something more tangible. What is it you truly wish to know?"

"Westmarch." His hands grew cold as he spoke the name. "Tell me about Westmarch."

* * *

"In the year 1300, the city of Westmarch was consumed by a creeping horror." The priest carried a thin, dust shrouded book to the table. He turned the pages slowly, searching. "Survivors spoke of the dead rising from their graves, and of malevolent spirits reaping souls in the streets. The city was abandoned, and even to this day, the darkness lingers there." He gestured about, generally. "Many of those who escaped settled here. Our town, Salvos, grew from tragedy. We have only known peace since then, although there has been an increase in fel-attacks as of late."

"I remember," Malthael said, wrestling with the renewed images of carnage that came to his mind. He forced them down, made himself look at the text. The words blurred into nonsense. "What stopped the spirits?"

"A necromancer and his companions journeyed to Westmarch and fought the evil at its heart. You would have to find them to ask what occurred. However, I sincerely believe they were Nephalem, for no one else could have stood against such darkness and triumph."

Nephalem. Malthael swayed and mouthed the word. It was familiar. Extremely.

"The children of Angels and Demons," the priest continued. "At least according to the histories. There are varying accounts of whether the High Heavens and Burning Hells exist, or are simply a symbolic extension of the mortal experience."

"What do you believe?"

"I believe the Light is real, and that Nephalem walk this world to protect us from the Eternal Conflict. It is eternal for a reason, after all. This world cannot have light without darkness. As one grows stronger, so does the other. Have I witnessed their champions myself? No, I have not. But the stories persist with remarkable consistency. Even Westmarch's legacy carries indelible images."

The priest turned one, final page. There, sketched in careful charcoal, was a towering, hooded spirit dressed in black. It carried twin blades, curved, which it used to draw a wisp-like essence from a writhing figure.

"It would take power of equivalent proportion to defeat such a demon. Tell me, stranger. What power do _you_ wield?" He lingered on the last word, glancing briefly at the bundle on the floor. "The Priests of Rathma sometimes carry such blades. Their nearest sect lies in New Tristram. They may offer you answers I cannot, if you were to seek them out."

Malthael only heard him distantly. His world was dark again, filled with shadowed streets and crumbling buildings. A pervasive mist blanketed him; each breath he expelled felt like a piece of his soul drifting away. He walked slowly through Westmarch, unable to stop, the hairs on his arms rising in anticipation.

At the end of the street stood the spirit. Malthael felt the stare from under its hood. He tipped his head, confused as to why the demon hadn't struck him down yet, as it had every other living being there. The spirit returned the gesture and raised a blade.

" _Nephalem,"_ it rasped. _"I will end the Eternal Conflict. In death, there is peace."_

"No. There is only violence in death." He pointed at the ruins. "It lingers, in memory, in place. You destroyed this place and its people."

" _I brought them a reprieve from suffering. As I would all mortals."_

Mist-like spirits rose around Malthael. Faces of those he had spoken to since he had awoken. The priest. Lirian. Jerem. Talm. They smiled at him and waved before fading away into the night. Others formed, ones he did not recognize; vague figures under cloaks, others clad in golden armor and wielding mighty blades.

"The only peace I have witnessed in these few days has come from the living. From mortals. We struggle, persevere, even against the darkest evil."

The spirit stepped forward, boots clacking loudly on the stone. It raised a second blade, and laughed, a hollow, crackling sound, like bones shattering.

" _Mortals are a sickness,"_ it said, growling. _"They have made wisdom unattainable. Demons pervert whatever they touch."_

Why did it speak as if it wasn't one? Malthael held his ground, though the closer the spirit drew, the more he shook. "And you believe you are above that?" He raised his voice, and it echoed in the mist. "What fool are you?"

" _What fool am I? Do you remember who you are?"_ Then it swung its blades.

Malthael cried out and threw his arms above his head. There was a flash of blinding light, and Westmarch and the demon were gone. He stood in the monastery, the table asunder, books scattered about the room. He gasped, breathless, as sweat pooled in his hair and across his forehead. The priest had fallen backwards and stared up at him from the floor, eyes wide. Terrified.

Confused, Malthael let his arms fall. He saw why the man was afraid. His palms glowed faintly, a deep, pulsating violet that made him shudder.

"By the Light," the priest whispered. "I thought you were Nephalem. Wrongly. What are you?"

" _Do you even remember who you are?"_

"I—"

" _Do you remember what you've done, Malthael?"_

He clutched his head and screamed. "Begone, spirit!"

" _Have you found wisdom amongst the mortals? Are their souls sweeter from the inside?"_

What he had found was evil, angrier and more malevolent than he could begin to fight. He grabbed the bundled blades and heaved them onto his shoulder. The spirit was somehow buried inside of him; it wanted to escape. Which meant that wherever he went, no one was safe.

He looked briefly at the priest, his vision wavering. He felt like weeping and laughing; a host of emotions he had no right to possess, but that were there, regardless.

Far away, nowhere and everywhere at once, he felt the wall of memory begin to crumble.

While he still had a semblance of control over his being, Malthael fled.

* * *

 **A/N:** I have a playlist up for this story now on my tumblr. You can come find me at mal-likes-biscuits. (User name is reference/joke to Chapter 1. I make no apologies.) Also, lots of behind-the-scenes commentary on writing and such.

Chapter 3 will be a bit delayed as I'm waiting for (epic) art for it that I want to share at the same time as posting. Sorry!


	4. Chapter Three: Light and Dark

_**A/N:**_ There is fanart to go with this chapter! You can see it by visiting my tumblr blog at mal-likes-biscuits. Also, the playlist for this chapter is "Sound of Silence" by Disturbed. Thanks all who have been reading and along for the ride. It's been a fun one so far.

* * *

 _Chapter Three: Light and Dark_

Malthael stumbled from the monastery into the streets. Townsfolk shouted as he pushed through the crowd, gait unsteady, his vision impaired by the fracturing in his mind. The blades grew heavier as he ran, though whether from fatigue or spiritual influence he did not know. He wanted to escape, but the exit he sought was not a physical one.

Time blurred into stuttering frames. He was at Salvos' gate; then, on the worn road outside; finally, he fell against a gnarled tree in a towering forest. His throat and lungs ached from running.

" _We were naïve before. As are you, now."_

"We?" Malthael gasped, breathless. "We are nothing alike."

" _To truly understand the Light, you must embrace the dark. We are the same, you and I. Accept it, and the inevitability of what is to come."_

A shadow passed over the forest. He searched for the source but saw nothing. It was too early in the evening for such ebony blackness. He pondered the spirit's words, tried to fit them into what he had read and intrinsically understood about the divine. It made little sense.

"If you are of the Light," he said, as the shadow crossed again, "then you could never touch the Hells. That is what separates angels and demons. Their nature is distinct and pure. What you are, spirit, is corrupted."

" _I am_ _ **death**_ _, which is the end of things regardless of their composition. I have brought enlightenment to all beings."_

"No. You have not. All beings struggle against you. As they did in Westmarch. And as I do here, now. I see your sickness for what it is."

Dark tar seeped from the ground, rose upward, and coalesced into a fallen angel. It unfolded its wings, which were broken shards of spirit-bones. It stepped methodically towards him, raising its blades.

" _The blood on your hands is equal to my own."_

"Then I will atone. Will you?"

" _Enough. I have spoken more this day than I have in a millennium. This will end, and I will regain what is rightfully mine."_

Malthael stood, still clutching the wrapped bundle in his arms. He thought of those who had been kind to him, regardless of the immense darkness his soul contained. Of Talm's words, naïve, yet now a fundamental part of his being. Wise words, though perhaps inaccurate in the past; he would make them true going forward.

 _You are a good man. And someday, you will remember that._

He unwrapped the blades, hefted them into his hands. Shotels, he realized; not harvesting sickles, but simple weapons of the highest craftsmanship. They were weightless, as if made from light itself, and cut through the air effortlessly. Runes carved into the blades glowed as intensely as the spirit's shotels seeped shadow. Not the weapons from his dream or those wielded by his foe, but pure blades, untainted.

 _These were not crafted from darkness. I wielded them before, and I will do so again._

Malthael raised one at the spirit, and its curved edge shimmered a brilliant amethyst. Fiery warmth ran through his fingers and up his arm. Instead of fighting the sensation, he let it proceed, until the power subsumed him, and he and the blades became one and the same.

The spirit howled and swept forward, a billowing cloud of icy mist trailing in its wake. Its motions were sluggish, as though it moved through water. It towered over Malthael and swung its blades downward.

He was quicker. He sidestepped instinctively, eyes narrowing as the shadow shotels cut a gruesome trench in the dirt. The fallen angel was slow, but Malthael knew if it so much as brushed him, he would be dead. He pivoted and swung behind it, raking his blades' tips towards its back. They passed through the cloak as if it were smoke.

It did not exist, he realized. The spirit was an illusion, born from his soul, though no less menacing than if it had physical form. He glanced back to the scar in the ground, wondering, briefly, if that was also unreal. If he wasn't even moving, but instead collapsed on the ground, lost within his subconscious. Not that death of the mind would be any less permanent.

The spirt lunged again. He felt the shotels swing before he saw them. A change in the wind, a hissing sound as they travelled. He brought his weapons up and hooked them around the others, deflecting them into a tree. The wood shattered.

The moment the blades touched, Malthael felt something return to him. A fragment of his greater whole.

" _ **Brother, we require your consul. Only Chalad'ar can show us the end to the conflict. Only you can bring us the Chalice's wisdom."**_

He had a duty, once. Ages ago. He had searched. Learned. Led, even.

The spirit flinched, its form sweeping backwards across the ragged ground. It snapped its blades back and stared at Malthael, as if it was able to hear his thoughts and was astounded.

" _They cared not for our wisdom,"_ it growled.

" _ **Perhaps Chalad'ar is not clouded, but enrichened. We will give you the time you require to see clearly again. Even Fate cannot determine the future, so entwined it is with these new mortals. Brother, we need your wisdom. Do not fail us."**_

Chalad'ar…the Chalice. It had been his, before. In a realm far in the sky, where beings of light tread marble hallways. They had asked an angel to peer into the souls of mortals and find knowledge. An angelic being, composed of the holiest spirit, who could neither comprehend nor defend against the internal darkness humans were capable of wielding.

Is that how I fell from grace, Malthael wondered. _I know, now. I was not mortal. Is that how you fell, as well, spirit? Were you my brother in those eternal halls?_

" _I need neither your mistaken insight nor your judgement!"_

Enraged, the shadow dove at him and swept the shotels in a horizontal strike meant to cleave him through the chest. Malthael felt, again, the blades as they moved. Like the dust and the wind, they were patterns in a greater whole, a part of the totality of existence that he—they—had once glimpsed within shimmering Light.

He met the weapons with his own, diverting the blow and ripping one of the shotels from the spirit's hands with a twist of his wrists. It landed a short distance away, where it continued to leak grainy smoke. Enraged, the spirit struck at him again, its remaining blade moving faster, leaving him little time to defend. The shotels clashed loudly, and each time they struck, he was overwhelmed with floods of memory.

" _ **Brother, the Worldstone is lost. We do not fully understand the consequences as of yet, but—Brother? Brother, you are stiller than I have ever seen. I—I will leave you to your thoughts, then. We will discuss more, later."**_

Do not leave, Malthael begged the memory. _He—I could not speak because we could not describe what we had lost. You left us. You left_ _ **me**_ _to drown in a sea of souls._

The spirit momentarily hunched as if in pain. It attacked again, but its movements were slowed. Malthael saw it clearly now, as if its form were sharpened and impressed against the rest of the world. He parried the single shotel, sliding the blade along his own and driving the creature back. The impact threw the spirit into an outcropping, his blade embedding deeply into the rock and pinning its arm to the surface.

" _ **Silence is Malthael's way, as you would expect. You would be blessed to hear him speak twice, if at all. We leave him to his studies, as he prefers. And when he chooses to speak, we listen."**_

 _But I could not speak. And you could not understand such imperfection, and thus never imagined I was in pain._

The loss he had been unable to feel before now ripped into his soul, bringing him to his knees. He remembered the moment the Chalice had clouded, to be filled with the faces of millions, their voices shouting simultaneously. How the pristine silence of the Pools had been altered forever. Enrichened, as his brothers and sisters said, yet forever out of his reach as a being born only of Light.

He remembered the moment he had lost hope. When he first walked the Halls of Pandemonium. When the sound took him, bringing promises of escape that ended only in darkness.

" _ **Brother, why?"**_

And the moment he betrayed them all.

He had been swept away and left to drown in a pool of madness, where he had, eventually, succumbed to a single desire—to silence the voices torturing him. He dimly remembered there being a logic to his actions. It did not matter. It had never been about mortal life. He had squandered them, excused his actions via the Eternal Conflict, and in doing so had become the very thing he had sought to defeat.

The dead in Westmarch had risen at his biding. He had reaped souls, razed the city to ashes with the essence of the dying. He had been no lieutenant at arms, or a compatriot fallen from Heaven.

He was the fallen angel trapped against the rock, laughing and reaching its free hand his direction.

" _Finally, you understand. In your limited, mortal wisdom."_

The shotels wavered in his hands as the full realization struck him. His soul felt ill, tainted.

"How did you do this?" He staggered towards the angel, pressing the blades against its neck. "This dark magic! How did you bring us here, if we were slain twenty years ago?"

" _You assume much. I would rather suffer an eternity of agony than walk as a mortal. Fate is cruel."_

"Then how?"

" _Find your own truths,"_ it rasped, the voice no longer overwhelming but instead a dull reflection of Malthael's own. _"Spare me your humanity and end this."_

Relief was too kind a gift for the creature. For _himself_. There was no forgiveness to be had for crimes so great. Regardless of how he had come to be there, burdened with forgotten darkness, he saw no just path forward.

"We were born of the High Heavens," he said, voice breaking. "And we betrayed all it stands for. We should be left to rot."

That was the way of his brothers and sisters. He imagined they would have abandoned him there, both his light and his dark, bound to the forest and the stone, until time itself passed away and his fractured soul remained. Alone.

As they had before.

It was the angelic way.

He blinked away tears. The shotels, suddenly heavy, strained his muscles, and he understood the gravity of what he needed to do. The spirit made no move to fight.

"We do not deserve this mercy," Malthael whispered. "For regardless of our past and our intent, we have sinned gravely. But the beings we have wronged often grant mercies that are not deserved. They ask for reparations instead of suffering. That is the _mortal_ way. And it will be _my_ way."

This time, the shotels cleaved cloth and armor cleanly; the angel's body broke apart and drifted, piece by piece, until the breeze took it, and like all other things in the world, it became dust. He watched it vanish and felt a strange release, as if a persistent scream in his mind fell silent.

Then Malthael, once the Archangel of Wisdom and the Angel of Death, awoke and remembered.

Everything.


	5. Chapter Four: The Oneness of All Things

_**A/N:** _One year later, we find ourselves in the company of familiar faces. Next week I'll post the final chapter/epilogue, and then we'll be moving onto the next story in the series. Thanks all for continuing to read and enjoy!

* * *

 _Chapter Four: The Oneness of All Things_

The trail took them near Westmarch, which was not much to Tyrael's liking. Even after twenty-one years, the land still smelled of decay and death. The air was particularly metallic, as though blood had been vaporized and infused into the atmosphere. It tasted bitter on his tongue and in his soul, for he had lost more than soldiers in the city's sacking and ensuing battle.

"You are particularly dour today," Eirena commented from atop her horse. The breeze was strong, and her hair flowed about her shoulders and, occasionally, into her face. "Though I understand, somewhat. I wish there were some sun with this wind."

Lyndon chuckled from behind. "Saying that Tyrael is dour is like saying a rock has become more of a rock."

Tyrael stifled a groan and shook his head. "Perhaps I should have left the lot of you in Tristram to help Haedrig clean out his smithy."

"I am not particularly pleased with our route, either," Kormac said, drawing up beside Tyrael and glancing darkly at the distant ruins. "I could have gone a lifetime without returning. Too much blood was spilled there, needlessly."

"Best, then, that our destination is elsewhere."

Tyrael had not travelled far outside New Tristram for quite some time. His record keeping kept him busy, as did his training of the still-new Horadrim and the guidance he provided to the increasing number of Nephalem that flocked to the town. While cities such as Westmarch had collapsed during the last full demonic uprising, others such as New Tristram had become bustling centres for learning or commerce.

He had been able to delegate most of his actionable work to the Nephalem over the years. The more time that passed since the Worldstone's destruction, the stronger and more numerous they became. Yet, even peace was transient; evil, as Tyrael well knew, always returned. Pockets of demonic activity had been growing since the previous autumn, and now, a year later, the situation was widespread enough that Tyrael found himself back in the field.

Word of an escalating situation near Salvos had reached him, along with the additional message that local forces were no longer enough to hold back the demonic hoard. Without assistance, the town faced eventual destruction.

"I'm surprised we pulled you away from your writing," Lyndon chided, drawing to Tyrael's other side so that the three men rode abreast. "Be careful, or you may grow a beard and turn into Cain. What do you have left to transcribe, after all?"

"The act of learning and teaching is eternal."

"Spoken like a true scholar."

"He is the Aspect of Wisdom," Kormac countered. "We should expect nothing less. Those are wise words."

"They were not mine," Tyrael said quietly, glancing towards Westmarch. "They were said by someone far wiser than myself."

And truly, Tyrael was only the Aspect. The Council had for years expected a renewed Wisdom to appear from the Crystal Arch; none had. Tyrael believed his mortality made him feel the absence more keenly than his brothers and sisters; they were immortal and eternal. And while Tyrael did not regret his decision to become mortal, his lifespan, albeit longer than a normal human's, was finite.

There was always the chance Tyrael would pass before Wisdom returned. He never expected to regain the brother he had lost, but a small part of him wanted closure. More than he had garnered in Pandemonium, watching the Fortress implode and the souls of the dead devour someone who had, once, been dear to him.

"I would honour both his memory and Cain's."

* * *

"I smell them," Kormac said, as the group halted on a small rise a few miles from Salvos proper; smoke rose in the distance. "Sulphur. Fire."

"Ah, demonic flatulence," Lyndon intoned. "Charming."

Snapping her fingers, Eirena summoned a shimmering sphere of ice in her palm and absently juggled it. "We know what kills fire. I can't speak for the rest of you, but I think I might starve if this takes too long. Let's clean things up and find a tavern."

"I like how you think, dear." He looked to Kormac and Tyrael and raised an eyebrow. "Is the dour duo ready?"

El'druin sang as Tyrael slid it from its scabbard and pointed it to the horizon. Blood pounded in his limbs, and he felt the lingering essence of Justice rise in his throat. He shouted wordlessly, his horse rearing from the noise. "It has been too long since I have done this. For the High Heavens, and the Light!"

* * *

"I suspect the reports were a tad understated," Lyndon shouted, as he drove a dagger into the lesser demon that clawed at him from the ground. As it fell, he snapped his crossbow upward and fired a bolt into the next monster charging him. "I don't know about you, but I rather think they needed our help weeks ago!"

Tyrael spun and surveyed the conflict, El'druin shimmering each time a demon was slain. Lyndon had a tendency for the dramatic, but he was not wrong. Either the reports were inaccurate, or the incursion was growing exponentially, to potentially culminate in something horrific. The town would soon be overrun by monsters, and although the population had evacuated, he could make no promises for the survival of their homes.

Arcane bolts thundered over his head; Tyrael ducked, instinctively, but they were not aimed at him. Eirena flashed past him on her mount, knees tucked tight against the saddle and arms raised in a casting pose. She wove the spell into a net, then tossed it out across the hoard of undead that were rounding a corner. The creatures howled and collapsed; Tyrael took his chance and lunged at them, cleaving the group with El'druin while the arcane net held them fast.

"Where is Kormac?" She shouted, glancing about. "I lost him at the gates."

"I do not know." Tyrael frowned as she dropped from the horse and joined him. "But something is amiss here. There is a greater evil at work driving these forces."

"I'm tired of these greater evils," Lyndon said, taking a moment to reset his crossbow and swing the blood and ichor from his blade. "I'm too old for it and my knees hurt. Can we find the hell mage or whatever is responsible and put it out of its misery?"

The enchantress laughed. "I'm sure our friend here is far older, and I hear no complaints from him."

Tyrael smiled slightly. "I would normally agree, but Lyndon is correct. We need to locate the source before it calls for aid." He shouldered El'druin and nodded down the laneway, where local guards had engaged a new group of foes.

Before the group could move, however, a loud growl emanated from behind a structure. The ground shook, pebbles jumping and rolling across the dirt.

Lyndon and Eirena glanced at each other, eyes wide.

"Oh my," she said. "I have not heard sound that in a long time."

The building exploded, shards of wood and nails flying outward in all directions. A towering form barrelled out from it; it shook wide shoulders, attempting to dislodge the Templar who was busy driving his sword into its neck.

Lyndon dove out of the way of the punisher, landing in a discarded haybale. "Kormac, you idiot, you've gone and made it mad!"

At least they had found it. Tyrael closed his eyes, inhaled, then snapped El'druin down into the ground, summoning an angelic circle of protection around the group. The punisher crashed into the golden barrier and howled; arcane sparks flew, and he strained to hold the shield in place.

"I thought we killed all of them ages ago," Eirena hissed, weaving her own spells to add to the circle. "The reaper forces were supposed to be destroyed."

"Then we missed one!" Kormac shouted, enraged, as the punisher shook violently, swinging the Templar from side to side. He wrenched his sword free and tumbled to the ground, managing to roll within El'druin's shield before the creature slammed its fists down.

"Plan?" Eirena asked.

"Kill it before it kills us," Lyndon spat. "Let's not overcomplicate matters."

What Tyrael did not understand was how the town's forces had held such a host at bay for this long. The presence of a punisher meant the demon-swell was in its latter stages, and he had seen only a handful of highly trained guards beyond the usual defense forces. Unless there were unknown Nephalem in the area taking care of demonic activity as it occurred, he was at a loss.

"I cannot hold the shield for long," he said, glancing at each of them in turn. "Ready yourselves."

Withdrawing her portion of the spell, Eirena began to craft additional enchantments. She wrapped one about Kormac's sword, another about Lyndon's shoulders as an arcane shield. They silently considered each other, then nodded as one.

The shield exploded as Tyrael withdrew El'druin from the ground. The light momentarily blinded the punisher; it staggered backwards, grasping at its face with armored fists the size of cows. Lyndon took the chance to slide between its feet, his blades slicing at the creature's hamstrings. The hide was tough, and the punisher growled and stomped, its blows cracking nearby cobblestone.

Kormac and Tyrael followed, sweeping around each side of the creature and striking its forearms with their swords. The blows thundered as they struck flesh, though the punisher staggered only slightly from the force. Black ichor spouted from the wounds, coating the ground in a slippery muck.

Seizing the opportunity, Eirena wove another arcane net and lassoed it around one of the punisher's arms. The two warriors added their blades, driving them deep into the creature's thighs in a further attempt to hold it in place.

"My turn." Lyndon fired a bolt at the punisher's head, but it turned and took the impact against its armor. Hissing, he made to leap onto its back instead. As he did, the monster its arm free from the spell-net with a roar; the scoundrel dextrously sidestepped as it crashed its fists into the ground again. Tyrael and Kormac held their ground, but the effort of keeping their weapons in the punisher's flesh was exhausting.

"Never mind," he said, retreating to Eirena. "Anyone else have an idea, aside from slowly stabbing its toes to death?"

A brilliant amethyst streak cut the air and slammed into the punisher's side. The demon howled and grasped at the curved blade embedded deeply in its ribs. A cloaked figure flashed beside Eirena and Lyndon, and as the others watched, it leapt effortlessly from the ground to balance on the hilt. Before the punisher could react, it ripped the hilt from flesh and jumped in a singular motion, using a second curved blade to pierce the creature's hide and leverage itself onto its shoulders.

Stunned at the acrobatic display, Tyrael shouted, "Hold it steady!" He leaned on El'druin as hard as he could. Kormac growled from the opposite side, doing the same.

"Right!" Eirena ran at the punisher, throwing webs of glowing arcane across it, opting for a quicker, less precise binding. "On it!" She glanced at Lyndon. "Help!"

Clearly understanding, he brandished two throwing knives, took aim, and launched them. They pounded into the punisher's neck in rapid succession, forming perilous but accessible steps.

The figure deftly leapt up them, landing softly on the demon's head. It paused only a moment, then swung the blade tips down and into the punisher's eyes. The creature howled, staggered, and began to collapse.

Tyrael had scarce seconds to rip El'druin out before the monster crashed to the ground. A cloud of dust and bloody mist enveloped him, and when it cleared, he saw the punisher dead and the unknown assailant standing calmly on the back of its neck.

"What in the Hells," Eirena said, as the figure recovered its weapons, swinging them to clean the blades. "What in the absolute Hells."

Tyrael was shocked enough about the sudden assistance that it took him a moment to realize why Eirena and the others were backing away, hands weaving arcane magics or grasping their weapons tighter. He studied the figure, seeing clearly now the tall hood and lithe form. Long, thin fingers clutched two matching curved blades. It turned to look at Tyrael, and though its face was obscured, Tyrael had the disturbing feeling that it was surprised to see him.

They had fought too hard for peace to let such a high-ranking member of the reaper forces survive, regardless of the assistance it had provided. How it had escaped attention this long, Tyrael did not know, but he did not plan on letting it go any further.

"Now," he gasped.

The four acted as a unit, striking forward instantly without consultation. He lunged and slammed his shoulder into the figure, knocking it from its perch on the punisher and throwing it to the ground. Kormac followed, using the hilt of his sword to drive it hard into the rubble of the building they had destroyed. Then, the other two swept in, using crossbow bolts and magic to bind the figure's cloak against the stone.

On this day of all days, when he had remembered too much of what he had lost, Tyrael refused to let even a single adversary win. He strode forward, brandishing El'druin with a righteous anger he had not felt in ages.

 _The forces of Hell wish to break me by reminding me of the past. The loss will be theirs._

He bellowed and drove the Sword of Justice into the reaper.

Or, at least, he tried.

Dumbfounded, Tyrael watched as the blade grew incorporeal and shimmered, floating, in the figure's chest. He twisted it, but no matter the angle, it refused to solidify and pierce flesh.

"Is it…supposed to do that?" Lyndon asked.

"No", Tyrael said, numbly retracting the sword and letting it fall to the dirt. _Except when it is used to strike those with justice in their hearts._

The being under the cloak exhaled loudly, a startlingly human gesture of relief that Tyrael did not expect to hear from a reaper's lieutenant.

"Brother," it said dryly, voice deep and familiar. "It is good to see you too."

* * *

They watched wordlessly as the others assisted the town guards in routing the remaining demons; with the punisher dead, the forces of Hell fell into disarray and became easier to quell. Tyrael, leaning against a half-collapsed wall, folded his arms, unfolded them, and absently brushed El'druin's hilt.

To the side, Malthael calmly wiped the trail of blood running from his nose, then spat a second wad onto the dirt. A dark purple bruise was forming across his cheekbone where Tyrael's shoulder had struck him.

Tyrael sighed. "I am sorry."

His brother nodded, eyes still on the dwindling conflict.

"When I saw you," Tyrael continued, "I never dreamt you could be anything but a reaper. Truly, I am still not sure how anything else stands beside me. I lost my brother decades ago to a madness I still do not understand."

"The mortal mind offers a certain…clarity…to things," Malthael said, eventually.

Frustrated at the lack of answer, Tyrael spun to face him properly. "I watched the Nephalem strike the life from you! I felt true hate for the first time in this form when I saw what you had done. Yet, still I mourned the loss of what you once were, and what you meant to us." When the other man appeared indifferent, Tyrael slammed his fist into the wall; the action embarrassed him, but he found the emotions impossible to stifle. "By the Hells, brother, you have always been too quiet. Will you speak and tell me how all of this occurred?"

Malthael tipped his head imperceptibly in Tyrael's direction, then slowly, very slowly, raised an eyebrow. "Will you listen?"

The words crushed the wind from Tyrael's lungs. Malthael's speech always carried a multitude of meanings, references to countless past experiences and potential future ones. Yet, there was no buried meaning here. It was as direct a statement as Tyrael had ever heard. The implication shamed him.

Carefully, so as not to push the wall over, Tyrael slid to the ground, placed his hands on his knees, and nodded.

"Of course."

* * *

"Tell me again why we did not simply expunge him with a different sword?" Lyndon honed his dagger against a palm-sized whetstone, having already recovered whatever quarrels he could from the downed demons.

The three companions watched from a distance as the two men continued to talk, heads bent, voices hushed. They had been that way since the demons had been routed hours ago. Eirena did not doubt they had much to discuss, but she, like the others, was exhausted from the fight, and looked forward to some light-hearted relaxation.

"El'druin cannot strike those of the Light," Kormac said. He had finished cleaning his own armor and sword earlier, and now leaned casually against an overturned haycart. "It would be the gravest sin to counter its decision."

"Perhaps it is wrong."

"The Sword of Justice is never wrong."

"We _killed him_ , Kormac," Lyndon said, incredulously. "I watched the Nephalem stick a blade through his blackened, rotting heart. He disintegrated. Exploded. He ceased to be."

"I saw. I was there."

"I have seen strange things in my time," Eirena said, interrupting their argument. "And I am just as anomalous myself. Even Tyreal himself died after destroying the Worldstone, only to return."

Lyndon shook his head. "Regardless, I do not understand how Tyrael can be so accepting of this. After all that monster did."

"I would not assume. They have been talking for two hours. I suspect there is much that he seeks to understand."

As if hearing them, Tyrael and Malthael finally stood. Eirena noted the shorter man was limping slightly, no doubt from when Tyrael had knocked him from atop the punisher.

"Well?" Kormac said, as they approached.

"We have a stop to make before returning to Tristram," Tyrael said. "You are all welcome to join us."

They all glanced at Malthael, who was determinedly avoiding eye contact, and instead intently considering his worn boots.

"Is it a tavern?" Eirena asked.

"Does it involve alcohol, generally?" Lyndon asked. "In copious quantities?"

"No," Tyrael said, "And, possibly. Gather the horses. I will explain more on the way."


	6. Chapter Five: True Wisdom

**A/N:** Here we are – the last chapter, followed by the epilogue! (Make sure you read both.) But worry not. This isn't the end of the series, or of Malthael's story.

"Arcane and Apples" (Act II) is the next story; the first chapter will be posted in the next couple of weeks (as soon as I proof-read one final time). Additionally, "Tales From Tristram: Series 1 Ficlets" will be the home for character-shorts that I've written as filler material. You may see it pop up from time to time; I have 4 short chapters lined up for it that take place between Act I and II.

Thank you so much to everyone who has read with me to this point. It's been wonderful getting to know some of you and sharing in the fandom!

* * *

 _Chapter 5: True Wisdom_

They arrived at the farm as the morning sun hit the horizon, its orange sphere casting warm rays across the golden fields and outbuildings. Several tents were pitched near the barn, and a wood awning had been crafted at the edge of the nearest wheat field. A small crowd stood, watching.

"Just in time." Tyrael dismounted his horse and directed the others to tie theirs off at the barn stable. Then he followed Malthael to join the audience.

"Bound in Light, bound in love," a priest said, as he drew a long silk wrap around the forearms and hands of the bride and groom. "Together in life, and beyond, unto death."

"I pledge my love and life to you," the young woman said, gazing at the man from under a lace veil. "For the Light and the great work of the Heavens. May we do both together."

"I pledge my love and life to you," the young man said, clasping her fingers tightly in his as the wrap bound them tighter. "Through darkness and the night, through death and the end. May we walk both together."

It was not the first mortal wedding Tyrael had witnessed, but it was one of the most beautiful. The residents of New Tristram had grown wealthy over the years, choosing to furnish their ceremonies with lavish flowers and jewels. These farmers, in stark comparison, were frugal from necessity; yet, the backdrop of the crops and the morning sun were as perfect as any Tyrael could have imagined.

He glanced sideways to his brother, wondering what he was thinking.

Malthael watched the ceremony intently, his expression neutral. In his arms he carried a large bundle wrapped in clean linens and secured with leather straps. If he retained any lingering discomfort from his injuries a day prior, he gave no indication.

The priest cleared his throat and gestured at the couple. "Then by the power of the Light and the Heavens, I declare you wed. May goodness follow you and bless your marriage, in this harvest season and each year hence."

The crowd applauded as the couple laughed and kissed. Tyrael found himself smiling from the contagious joy of the moment. He looked to Malthael again, expecting to find more stoicism, and was surprised to see otherwise.

"Are your eyes itchy, brother?" Tyrael said, over the cheering. "They seem to be watering."

"Hay fever. A mortal plague."

Lyndon leaned between them, placing a hand on their shoulders. "I was promised gratuitous amounts of drinking." Then he looked to Malthael, surprised. "Are you _weeping_? Eirena was right. Some strange magic has been wrought, because I never thought I would see death-"

"Ribs cracked. Excuse me." Malthael shrugged off his hand and stepped away, working forward through the crowd that was now milling about the married couple.

"He's a terrible liar," Lyndon said. "I heard not a word from him the entire ride, and believe me, the last I rode with broken ribs, I spent most of it begging for some demon to end my misery."

"I do not doubt him," Tyrael said, "I have seen him silent through worse. However, he told me it was the harvest dust."

"I told you we should not trust him." The scoundrel's tone was flippant.

"You are all right with him travelling with us, then?"

"Tyrael, friend. Of all the things in the world he could have requested, he asked us to take him to a wedding. Consider the banality of that for a moment." His smirk faded, and he grew uncharacteristically contemplative. "That the Angel of Death would ride to see a young couple bound in marriage. That is not only preposterous, but _human._ I was loath to be convinced by that sword of yours. But this sort of behaviour I understand and believe." He nodded towards Malthael. "Now, unless you want to miss this..."

* * *

Malthael waited silently as those in the audience congratulated the couple. He knew he was little more than a stranger, and he did not want to intrude on their blessings. Eventually, as the others dispersed to dine and drink, he found himself standing before the pair.

Though only a year had passed, Talm looked noticeably older. His shoulders had broadened and taken on the shape of his father's. His face, some of the wind-worn look of his mother's. His eyes, however, still twinkled with the youthful enthusiasm Malthael remembered.

Life passes quickly for them, he thought, as their eyes met. _If Tyrael is correct, traces of immortality still grace us, and Talm will grow old as I watch._

"By the Light," Talm whispered, his eyes widening. "Oh, sweet Heavens. Lena, this is the man I told you about. The one we found at the lake, who gave me the courage to speak to you."

Malthael nodded, words dying in his throat.

"I wondered if you had made it to Salvos. But look at you." The couple stepped forward, pausing as they noticed the bundle. "Surely you haven't carried that, unopened, all this time?"

A ghostly smile came to Malthael's lips. He turned slightly, so Talm could see the shotels strapped in sheaths across his back. The hilts glimmered in the sunrise. Then he extended the bundle, pressing it into Talm's hands as the younger man had done to him a year prior.

"Talm?" Lena asked, glancing at her husband.

They unwrapped it together, revealing a pair of newly forged harvesting sickles. Talm hefted one, turning it and admiring the craftsmanship. "My friend," he said quietly, shaking his head. "This is far more than I can accept. The cloth alone is worth its weight. I am happy enough to see you alive."

"Consider it a repayment of your kindness."

"You needn't."

"I did." Malthael bowed, wincing as the motion shifted his ribs. "I heard rumour of your engagement. I am sorry if I intruded."

"Of course you did not! You must join us. Did you travel alone?"

"My…brother and his companions accompanied me."

Talm's eyes grew even wider. "Your _brother_? Then you rediscovered your past?" Before Malthael could reply, he took his hand, and gestured towards the tents where the revelry had begun. "Come, let us celebrate. You can tell us everything."

* * *

"Your friends may drink us out of mead," Jerem said, settling in beside Malthael on the grass. They both watched as Lyndon and Eirena danced arm in arm, mugs in hand, merrily chortling a drinking song. Tyrael and Kormac stood to the side, cradling their own pints and engaging in an intense discussion. They were not out of place among the surrounding revelry.

"I am sorry."

"Don't be. Moments like these, it's what it's for." Jerem paused to chew on a wheat stalk. "Your brother tells me you hurt yourself and that's why you're not dancing. I more figured you just weren't the dancing type."

"Tyrael worries overabundantly."

"I might too if I were your family." He tapped his cheekbone in the spot where Malthael's was bruised. "Talm said you found yourself some trouble this last year."

"Essentially."

Jerem chuckled. "Well, I appreciate all you've done to keep things tidy in these parts. I wondered who was keeping the monsters down."

"I had assistance."

"True. There's always been demon hunters around. But this is the first year in many we haven't been near overrun at one time or another." He pointed at the shotels. "I remember when Talm showed me those. I could have tanned the boy, going out at night like that. But when I saw them, I knew they were important."

Malthael drew one from its sheath and held it across his lap. The runes on the blade glowed faintly from within. He palmed the hilt and drew comfort in the icy warmth it radiated.

 _More important than you will ever know._

"So. You adopted?" Jerem asked. "Or is it your brother?" He chuckled again when Malthael stowed the weapon and ignored the question. "None of us are blind, friend. No, don't tell me. I have a few guesses, and I think it's best if I don't air them. Some stones should be left unturned."

"Agreed."

"Did you find your answers?"

For a moment, Malthael felt every ache in his body, as if Jerem's question had unexpectedly thrown him fully into his flesh. It was easy to distance himself from reality through thought. Harder, greatly, when reality refused to be ignored.

"Yes," he said, quietly.

"Were they what you wanted?"

Malthael shrugged. Considered.

 _It would do no good to burden you with my story. I doubt you would be sympathetic, nor would I expect it. Far better I bear the full truth alone and continue to make retributions as I can. It is the least I can do, and the least that I owe._

He shook his head.

"Not surprised," Jerem said. "Don't think answers are often what we want. I figure, it's what you learn about where you're going that matters. You gave that inspiration to my son, sure enough. In your way."

The words hit him hard. He met Jerem's gaze and held it for a long time, contemplating the irony of his situation – that the mortal sitting before him understood the world far more intrinsically than he ever had before he had Fallen.

"I was said to be wise, once," Malthael said, eventually. "I was foolish to believe I understood everything. It precipitated my failure."

 _Even as I beheld the entirety of creation, I was blinded to its finer details. They were maddening; I thought them unimportant. But the fault was not in the mortal world, or in its myriad of emotions. It was in my own incomplete nature, and my inability to comprehend a world as vivid as Sanctuary._

Jerem hummed contentedly and turned his attention back to the dancers. "Hmm. Knowing that seems wise enough to me."

"Truly?"

"Truly."

 _Then I will begin there._ _The path is unending. But there is grace in the pursuit and holiness in the preservation of knowledge. I will begin with what I do not know: everything._

"You sure you don't want some?" Lyndon called as he and Eirena swung by. "Can't have three dour faces in our party. Far too many."

Their laughter was infectious. His soul easing, Malthael stood and shrugged the sheaths from his back. The blades rang as they hit the ground, the sound pure and melodic like a small piece of the High Heavens.

He could release his burden for a short while.

"I do not dance," he said.

"Drink, then!"

"No."

"Join us, at least," Tyrael called, his voice cutting through the din. "Come and sit, brother. Listen. Talk. As you would."

That, he could do.

Malthael smiled slightly and strode to meet them.


	7. Epilogue: The Book of Malthael

_Epilogue: The Book of Malthael_

 _ **The following is an excerpt from the Book of Malthael, undated, but written sometime after the year 1321. It has been copied, unedited, in its original form. Although a longer text is assumed to exist, its location is currently unknown.**_

Deckard Cain once wrote on Wisdom. In the Book of Cain, he notes that "[in] all things there are two sides: motion and stillness, emptiness and fullness, light and dark. Alone, each side is incomplete, but together, they form the totality of existence. Only through embracing the oneness of all things can true wisdom be obtained."

Tyrael, my brother. You carried the answers to my questions with you in Cain's legacy, yet I did not seek you out. Prideful and omnipotent, I was unable to see the fault in my thinking, nor the sickness that plagued my thoughts. Your destruction of the Worldstone was a just action, designed to preserve Sanctuary and the mortal lives it contains. I blamed you for my pain, and although you and the others were also blind to my suffering, you were not the cause.

An angelic mind, no matter its maturity, cannot comprehend the depths of evil, nor the complexities of mortal nature, without corrupting. This fault is not due to the imperfections of humanity. No, that imperfection is the very thing that allow mortals to transcend their angelic and demonic legacy.

The angelic being that seeks to understand evil will see its core fracture, and its soul become undone. It becomes what it strives to overcome. It drowns in madness, because it understands nothing beyond perfection. It withers and dies, because it is only half of the totality of existence and will never be more.

I believed darkness was an evil to be excised from creation. And truly, there is suffering in the mortal realm that I would see end. Yet, darkness itself is not a symptom of ill. Mortals carry both the light and dark within their souls throughout their lives. They balance the two on a needle's point, sometimes wavering one direction or the other. It is through this capacity for mistake or greatness that they may understand the true nature of the universe, and thus transcend their angelic or demonic ancestors.

Once, I thought power should not rest in the hands of beings who are here for but a moment, who flare and die in the glory of battle or the misery of life. These beings who embrace, as Cain wrote, the oneness of all things. Who dance and sing in the rain, who watch the dust drift in sunbeams. Who love and laugh. Who mourn and weep.

These beings, who give selflessly to those they barely know. And who do so again and again, because they have seen and comprehended good and evil and have chosen the Light. These beings, who embody the immense goodness the angelic Host seeks, more completely than any angel ever could.

No immortal shall truly be wise or understand creation, for although perfect, they are also incomplete. Angels and demons alike will always be supplemented by mortals, who embrace the oneness of all things and grow strong from it. The dynamic nature of the mortal world evades immortal attempts to elucidate its future.

And we are better for it, we who fight an Eternal Conflict that is unending. Colourless. Empty. Our new future is not one of predictable sureness, but instead adaptation and change. Of our desire and choice to embrace wholeness.

Of our hope in mortality.


End file.
